


Knox The Fox in The Frost Giant's Skull

by porter_city



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Urban Fantasy, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porter_city/pseuds/porter_city
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knox, one of the many skinchangers who resides in Porter City Municipal Park, takes a job from Gunnar Haakonsson, a frost giant.  He fetches Gunnar's prize - the skull of a man who once insulted his father - but when he is forced to abandon the skull to avoid police suspicion, it is stolen and he is forced to go on a quest for various favors to placate certain residents of Porter City in order to get it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knox The Fox in The Frost Giant's Skull

**Author's Note:**

> I would not have been able to write this without the support of my lovely wife, Nicki. Thank you, sweetheart. Porter City is basically all your fault.

It wasn’t, after all, his fault.

The passages into Porter City, varied and secret though they were, did not possess protection charms or veils which hid them from sight. To place enchantments on them would only draw the attention of the witches and warlocks that traitorously worked for the police department. The passages possessed some magic, of course; they had to in order to pierce the wards that bound Porter City’s more powerful denizens within her borders, but by and large they were just dirt tunnels or gaps in the wall or particularly tall trees with very convenient branches.

Only the skinwalkers knew about them, and only they were free to come and go. It was part of the magic that let the passages exist; the Crow Clan, seven grubby little girls with jet black eyes and rough, croaking voices, had tried to lead one of the werewolves out through the garden gate passage a few months ago. They had opened the gate and danced their merry way out of the city, but when the wolf tried to follow, he’d only ended up back in the garden, his feet planted firmly in the cabbages. One of the Crow girls, Decima, went back to fetch him, but the garden gate wouldn’t open for her anymore, and they were forced to swim back into the city through the troll stream gate.

The skinwalkers might all have been annoyed by the inconvenience - the garden gate was one of the best passages out of the city - but the cabbages had been recently fertilized and they were all so delighted by the story of a wolf with his shoes in the shit that they forgave the Crow girls their little indiscretion.

So it wasn’t Knox’s fault that he ended up having to come back into the city through one of the grubby tunnel passages. It was the first one he’d come across in his approach of the city, and he’d considered just bypassing it in favor of one further out but less dirty. However, he had accomplished his errand and was therefore bored with what he was doing. There was little cleverness required to deliver a package, small reason for him to run out of his way to get into the city. He’d gone quite a long way already and his paws were sore and he wanted to go home.

The passage was just a simple dirt tunnel, wide enough to accommodate someone his size or smaller. He didn’t know what it looked like to outsiders, but to him and to the other skinwalkers, it was a hollow under the root of an old pine tree. He stood in front of it for a moment, contemplating. His package was not particularly big, but it would be unwieldy. He cocked his head one way, then the other. The wind ruffled his ears but the early autumn bite did not penetrate his thick fur.

He thought a moment longer, huffed, then picked up the bundle in his mouth and trotted to the passage. He would have to go in backwards; it was the only way he would avoid tripping over the package. It would also ruffle his tail - of which he was justly proud - and put him in very real danger of being seen emerging into the city butt first. If that happened, his fellow skinwalkers would gleefully abandon Shitty Shoes Wolf and he would be forced to humiliate someone else to draw attention away from himself.

But there was nothing for it, and so he squirmed down the passage, pushing himself backwards with his front paws. His fur was pulled every which way, scuffed and disturbed, and by the time he managed to wriggle his way down the passage, he was entirely out of sorts. The tunnel emptied onto a baseball diamond and, after attempting several times to dislodge home plate with his bottom, he was forced to give it a hard kick. It flipped over and back and he wriggled out into the open air.

The emergence of his butt was not met with hoots and laughter, and he gave thanks for that small miracle. He shook out, dislodging some of the dirt that had worked its way into his lustrous coat. He would have to bathe thoroughly before he delivered the package, but it wasn’t due until tomorrow night. There was plenty of time for a nap, a bath, and a meal before he was expected to present himself. 

Entirely pleased with himself, he picked up the bundle and started down the third base line when he saw the flashlights bobbing along near the gate to the park. He froze, scenting the air though it was hardly necessary. Those were definitely cops and they were definitely here for him.

In a panic, he hurried back to home and kicked the base back into its original position, covering the hole. That done, he tried desperately to come up with an idea for what the hell to do with his package. He could deny being out of the city all he wanted, but they for sure wouldn’t buy it if they caught him with contraband.

There was a cluster of trees near the corner of right field and he took off running, a dark blur in the night. The beams of the flashlights were clustered around home; somehow they had discovered the location of the passage. They hadn’t seen him yet, though, which meant he still had time to keep out of trouble.

The soil under the trees was loose and rich and he began digging as soon as he found a relatively sheltered place. It was easy going, and he soon had a sizable hole into which he dropped the package. Covering the hole was even quicker, and he brushed it over with his tail, covering the spot with pine needles and fallen leaves so that it wouldn’t look suspicious. That done, he was off like a shot again, hurrying through the darkness so that he could be found in an entirely different part of the field.

He approached the police from beyond third base, switching skins halfway there. He hadn’t laid any clothes by for his return, as he’d intended to go all the way home in his fox skin, and so he strolled up to the police stark naked. One of them turned, saw him wave. Within seconds, they were clustered around him, flashlights pointed at the ground. Most of them looked vaguely annoyed. One, younger than the rest, coughed into his hand, stifling laughter.

“Knox,” said their sergeant. She was short and round and looked like she couldn’t decide whether she’d rather be in flannel and boots or in an apron, baking pies. Her hair was short, her face was ruddy and stern. Every part of her looked like she had been banged together from thick, stubby logs, but she was surprisingly quick on her feet and could - annoyingly - run steadily for distances that would cripple most other humans. Knox suspected that she was at least part dwarf.

“Mel,” he greeted cheerfully. One of the cops handed him a jacket and he swung it around his shoulders. All of them were taller than him - including Mel - so the jacket hung down far enough that it covered his unmentionables. Not that he was embarrassed, but he had noticed that humans had a hard time talking to him when he wasn’t wearing clothes.

“Sergeant Davenport, if you don’t mind,” Mel said dryly. Knox shrugged. “What are you doing in this field, Knox?”

“What are _you_ doing in this field, Mel?” he demanded. She started to correct him again, then sighed and let it go.

“You come in through the passage?” she asked, gesturing towards home plate. Knox wondered who told her where the passage was. Probably old Shit Shoes The Wolf, still pissed off that the skinwalkers were laughing at him. He’d known about the existence of most of the major passages.

“Nope, that’s illegal,” Knox answered piously. Mel glared at him. “I would _never_ leave the city except through the official gates with the proper paperwork.” He did have papers; everyone in the city had papers. His, he thought, were buried somewhere near the fountain in the center of the park.

“Besides,” he continued. leaning close and whispering, “the passage is on the other side of the field.” He watched in delight as uncertainty chased anger across Mel’s face, then waved a hand in the general direction of left field. That ought to keep her away from the trees where he’d buried his bundle, and prevent her from paying too much attention to the actual passage. He was fairly certain that, as humans, the cops would just find dirt if they lifted the base, but better safe than sorry.

MIstrust of him warred with the desire to seal one of the skinwalkers’ many ways in and out of the city on Mel’s face for a moment, before she gestured sharply to him. “Better go home, Knox,” she ordered. “Before I throw you in a cell.”

As it was perfectly plain that she was itching to do just that, Knox tipped an imaginary hat and trotted off of the field. He was confident that the police wouldn’t find his bundle, and he wasn’t due to deliver until tomorrow evening. Yet another successful venture concluded.

*

Except…

*

The hole was empty. 

Knox had been staring at it for a good ten minutes, blinking his eyes, then rubbing them, then turning his back as though he could surprise the bundle into reappearing. He’d tried to tell himself that perhaps he’d dug in the wrong place, but there was no conviction in it; he had an excellent memory, and anyway he’d been able to smell himself all over the soil. This was definitely the spot, and the bundle was definitely missing.

It wasn’t the cops. They would have cordoned the field off and brought him in for questioning and Mel’s smugness would have irradiated the entire city. It wasn’t another skinwalker, either. They were all bright enough to know not to mess with his shit; Knox might not have been top of the skinwalker food chain, but he was clever and he had backers and most of the others had learned to leave him be.

He tried to think of someone who might want to hurt him or get him in trouble, but the list was so long that he gave up immediately. Anyway, it didn’t feel like a revenge thing. Those typically involved gloating notes or smug assholes standing by to wallow in his despair.

Regardless of who had stolen the bundle, he was dead if he didn’t get it back. His client, while very generous, was also kind of murderous and crazy, and it would not go down well at all if Knox failed to show with the goods. So. He had until tonight to find his bundle, he had already slept most of the morning away, and he had no idea where to start looking. Piece of cake.

He shifted, leaving his clothes in a bundle by the trunk of a tree. His sense of smell, always keen, was vastly enhanced when he wasn’t encumbered with a stupid human nose. There was nothing to smell but dirt and the lingering human stink of the police officers who, according to the scent trails, had stayed primarily on the other side of the field. Knox nosed through the dirt, but there was nothing there.

Clacking his teeth, he climbed down into the hole. It was narrow - the bundle was small - and so only his front half fit, but it was enough for him to sniff around and find only the rich smell of the dirt and a couple of earthworms. Frustrated, he began to dig again, flinging dirt out of the hole.

It was satisfying, feeling the earth give under his paws, hearing the dirt rain down behind him. Knox wasn’t given to needless destruction as a general rule, but sometimes it was the only thing that helped. Sometimes, just knowing that you were tearing something up was good for the soul. He relished the feeling of his claws raking aside the soil.

And then they weren’t anymore because there was a hole at the bottom of his hole and he had struck air and he fell.

He twisted wildly, managed to plant his feet on either side of the hole, and he stared in disbelief. Was it some weird hollow place in the ground? Curious, he stuck his nose down into the hole and sniffled.

Nuts. Berries. Pine pitch. Dirt. But also bread and eggs and cheese, fennel and thyme. Tea, for shit’s sake! Knox retreated from the hole, shaking his head, shifting back into his two-legged form. He cursed as he got dressed, stamping his feet over what he hoped was a tiny little kitchen.

His bundle had been stolen, all right. By a damned brownie.

*

Porter City, being a collective of men and women and non-binary gendered individuals who enjoyed sex to varying degrees, played host to a number of strip clubs. Some of them were female only, some of them were male only. There was one that catered to a very specific clientele and which Knox had never been inside because he didn’t care to think about any of the individuals who worked there sans clothing.

Many of them, though, were unisex. Most of the non-humans in the city were less hung up on their sexuality than the humans, and happily ogled whichever performer happened to be on stage at the time. It was to one of these clubs that Knox made his way, though they wouldn’t be open at this time of day.

“Scuse me!” he yelled, hammering on the back door. He was small and so didn’t make much noise, but after only half a minute or so the door opened and he was faced with a very angry, very pretty woman.

“We’re not open yet,” she snapped. Her hair, metallic silver, was twisted up in curlers and she was wearing yoga pants and an old t-shirt, but she was still stunning, her features fine and full, her figure perfect. If you were into that sort of thing, which Knox was absolutely not.

“I know,” he said. “I need to talk to Rasmus.”

“Rasmus isn’t here,” she answered. Her nails were painted the same silver as her hair and, Knox imagined, when she got on stage she wore some sort of spangly silver costume. The fae did like their glitter. “He doesn’t come in until eight.”

“I need him before that,” Knox said, cocking his head at her. Her lips thinned in annoyance. She started to shut the door, but Knox stuck a foot in and opened his eyes as wide as he could. Humans usually fell for the puppy dog eyes, humans and those species that still identified as human. This one - a svartalfar, judging by her slate gray skin and opalescent eyes - was not going to be so easy.

“Go by his house then,” she suggested.

“He hasn’t got one,” Knox protested. She eyed him, raised a brow.

“You’re that fox,” she said. Knox grinned. The elf rolled her eyes and moved out of the doorway, gesturing sharply. “Come in, then. I’ll go get him.”

Knox followed her inside, mentally congratulating himself on his cleverness. He’d done a job for a redcap once, nasty bit of business, but he’d gotten a lot of information out of it. One little tidbit that he’d found particularly intriguing was the fact that the fae, while known for being aloof, tended to congregate in large groups depending on the Court to which they belonged. They lived where they worked, sleeping in great piles of moss and pillows, eating together like a great family, regardless of species. There were a few that broke the mold, the nobles mostly, but Knox knew Rasmus, and Rasmus was a common-as-dirt goblin. He’d gambled and won, the first good thing to happen to him today.

He waited in a sort of entrance hall, if it could be called that when it was located at the back of the club. There was a coat rack and an umbrella stand and a cubby for shoes, and none of them were being used for their intended purpose. The coat rack was festooned with cobwebs and streamers and tiny little lanterns, inside which Knox could see the flickering lights of slumbering pixies. The umbrella stand was half full of water and had a lily pad floating on top; judging by the smell of it, he was ninety percent certain that a nixie lived at the bottom of it. The shoe cubbies did not appear to house any of the smaller fae, but they were so stuffed full of flowers, moss, and pretty stones that it would have been futile to try and fit even an infant’s shoe inside one.

Knox rocked back and forth on his bare feet - he rarely, if ever, bothered with shoes - and curbed his desire to go exploring. Had this been the house of anything or anyone else, he might not have been so successful, but the fae were well known for the joy they took in serving creative justice on any who crossed them. Even these who were Seelie, and therefore relatively law abiding.

Time ticked by, but there were no clocks and so Knox could not accurately gauge just how much of it had passed. Put him outside, under the sun and stars, and he had no problem, but in here, with only a handful of windows and that sense of timelessness the fae carried with them, and he had no clue if he’d been there a minute or an hour. Or, for that matter, a year. He wouldn’t put it past them to just leave him standing in the entrance hall, oblivious as the world rushed by without him. It was sort of a thing with them.

And it would, he thought musingly, solve a lot of problems. Gunnar probably wouldn’t be nearly so angry with him for losing the bundle if a year had passed…

Footsteps on the stairs. Knox perked up. The elf woman came first, studying him suspiciously to make sure he had not shifted even an inch out of place. Satisfied, she stepped aside and let Rasmus pass.

He was sleepy and cranky and rumpled, but neither the faded old flannel pajama pants nor the wiry explosion of messy hair made him any less attractive. He was compact and graceful; his skin shimmered like fool’s gold. His eyes, when they met Knox’s, were ivory ringed and shot through with gold. His hair was black, and so were the curved horns that nestled in it. Rasmus was still young and so they weren’t particularly big, but they were glossy like obsidian. Knox wanted very badly to touch them, but as he needed Rasmus’s help, he restrained himself.

“I’ve only been asleep for three hours,” Rasmus complained, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Technically, you don’t need to sleep at all,” Knox pointed out. Rasmus pursed his lips but didn’t argue. The fae liked their rest but they could do without it. “And I’m calling in my favor.”

“Right now?” Rasmus’s voice rose to a petulant wail. “I have to work tonight!”

“And I have to recover an item by tonight, so don’t worry, you’ll be back in plenty of time.” Knox folded his arms and stared at the goblin steadily. Rasmus might not like it, but Knox had done him a favor several months ago, and fae took their debts seriously. Rasmus regarded him suspiciously, then threw up his hands.

“Fine, I’ll go get dressed.”

*

They sat on the sidewalk, eating tacos from one of the city’s many food trucks, and Knox told Rasmus about the brownie.

“I’ve dealt with them before,” he explained, plucking a cranberry out of the tortilla and popping it into his mouth. “They won’t listen unless you’re fae. Last time I had to bribe a hob to go with me.” Rasmus made a face; though technically cousins, the goblins and the hobs did not particularly get along. There was a lot of resentment on the goblin side of things, though Knox did not pretend to know the whole story, nor did he care.

“So this time it’s me?” Rasmus gestured with his taco, which appeared to be stuffed with candied violets and something that Knox sincerely hoped was pork. “That’s hardly fair, is it? There are tons of fae in the city, you could have gotten someone else!”

“You’re the only one who owed me,” Knox explained, standing up. Rasmus glared sullenly at him but followed suit. “Besides, what does it matter? It’s just a brownie.”

“Brownies are weird,” Rasmus muttered, eating the last of his lunch and throwing the wrapper away. “They creep me out.”

“That’s racist,” Knox said mildly. Rasmus shoved him. They were very nearly the same height, but Rasmus was significantly stronger, and Knox stumbled several steps off course before catching his balance.

“It’s not racist,” Rasmus snapped. “You’ve dealt with them, you know what I’m talking about!”

And Knox, who didn’t really give a shit if Rasmus was racist against brownies or not, had to admit that the goblin had a point. Brownies were weird little creatures; they lived in burrows and stole objects with which to furnish those burrows. Primarily solitary, they had been known to congregate in large family groups and construct interconnected tunnels and homes that stretched for miles. Knox had dealt with them only sparingly, as they tended towards insanity at a higher rate than most fae.

“Whatever,” he said, waving away the issue. “I just need you to talk to him for me.” He eyed Rasmus thoughtfully. “Hey, your cousin is a princess, right?”

“No!” Rasmus shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders defensively. “Not the way you’re thinking. I mean.”

“Her dad is the Erlkonig, right?” Knox climbed the chain link fence that separated the baseball field from the rest of the park. Rasmus glared at him, then followed. “Like, the actual guy from the poem? That guy is your uncle, right?”

“That’s not really how it works with the fae,” Rasmus grumbled. “And anyway, she’s got about a zillion sisters, so it’s not even that impressive, she’s just the only one that lives in the city so she gives herself airs.”

“Does the brownie know that?” Knox asked. Rasmus sighed.

“No, probably not,” he admitted.

“Good, impress him. I need my… thing back.” 

“What _are_ we looking for, anyway?” Rasmus demanded. Knox pretended not to hear, trotting ahead to the grove of trees. There had been a few animals by since he’d left, a squirrel, a raccoon, a couple of pigeons. Nothing sentient, though. He peered into the hole. The damage he’d done to the tunnel was neatly repaired.

“It doesn’t matter,” Knox stated. “It’s a job I did for Gunnar, and he’ll be pissed if I don’t bring him what he’s paying for.”

“Gunnar,” Rasmus said. He slipped his shoes off and began to poke around among the roots of the tree with his toes, searching for the proper entrance to the brownie’s burrow. Knox stepped back and left him to it. “Haakonsson?”

“Maybe,” Knox muttered. Rasmus whistled softly.

“You’re insane,” he said. “Working for frost giants is bad business. Here it is.” He gestured with his foot and Knox trotted over to stand beside him.

“How do we get in?” 

“You just walk in.” Rasmus raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you’d dealt with brownies before.”

“He met us out in the open,” Knox explained, staring critically at the tiny gap between root and soil. “Didn’t trust us to know where his home was.”

“He probably had little ones, then,” Rasmus offered. Knox snorted.

“Maybe,” he allowed. “Seriously, though, I definitely can’t fit in there, and unless you’ve been hiding your size changing powers from me, neither can you.”

Rasmus rolled his eyes and stepped towards the tiny opening like he was going to walk smack into the tree. Instead, it seemed to Knox as though he folded in on himself, growing smaller and smaller until he was only six inches high and stepping into the burrow with ease. He gestured for Knox to follow, grinning smugly all the while, and then disappeared under the tree.

Knox stood for a moment, staring down at the little hole. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the magic; the fae could be tricky, but he didn’t think Rasmus would send him crashing into the side of a tree, not when it would make his own debt to Knox that much more. He simply did not like the idea of changing size, of descending into a brownie’s home. Knox preferred to stage his battles on his own turf, in his own time.

But time wasn’t his anymore, and if he wanted to make it through this day alive, he would have to make sacrifices. Drawing a deep breath, he swung his foot towards the hole, exactly the way Rasmus had done.

The sensation was a little like being on a swing, that moment of weightlessness at the apex where the only thing to do is hold tight and hope that gravity’s greedy hands don’t catch hold. Knox staggered a little, shook his head. His reaching fingers found soil and then warm flesh, and then Rasmus was holding his hand and laughing.

“All right, there, Reynard?” the goblin teased, drawing him further into the dimness of the brownie’s burrow. “It’s a bit disorienting, isn’t it?”

“You could have warned me,” Knox muttered, swatting away Rasmus’s hands. His legs were steadying, and he was surprised and pleased to note that he didn’t feel physically any different. “And my name is Knox.”

“Whatever you say,” Rasmus agreed, setting off down the winding tunnel. Knox, muttering under his breath, followed him closely.

The soil felt different beneath his feet, more like very fine gravel. He noticed every root tendril, every tiny rock. Pebbles that would have been no bigger than his thumbnail were now stones. Roots that he would not even have noticed before were now logs. Once, going down a fork in the tunnel, he saw a loop of earthworm hanging out of the wall. It was as thick as his arm, glistening and undulating in a disturbing way. Grimacing, he stayed close behind Rasmus. He was not keen to meet a spider at this size.

Not soon enough for Knox, but sooner than he expected, they emerged into a warmly lit room. A long wooden table occupied most of the space and was lined all the way around with little chairs. A tin pot full of Queen Anne’s lace sat in the center, lending the room a homey touch. There was a fireplace hollowed out of one wall and shelves out of another; they housed what appeared to be tiny journals, knick-knacks, and carved representations of various animals. Presiding over it all, in a place of honor, was the face of a child’s watch. It was bright green and had cartoon characters on it that Knox did not recognize, but the hands ticked merrily along, filling the room with a sound like a heartbeat.

“This is cute,” Knox said, impressed.

“He must be courting,” Rasmus answered, less so.

“Aye, maybe I am,” interjected a new voice. “And what’s it to ya?”

The brownie had approached from one of the side tunnels; he smelled like earth and roots and so Knox had not smelled him coming. He was of a height with them, wiry and - as his species suggested - as brown as the soil in which he made his home. His hair stuck out like a wild bush, a rich loamy red in color, and his fierce eyes were vivid green.

“Forgive our intrusion, sir,” Rasmus said, bowing at the waist. After a moment, Knox did the same. “My friend needs to speak with you.”

“Mmm, I’ll bet.” The brownie stepped into the room, eyeing them thoughtfully. His clothes looked modern enough, a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that he must have fashioned out of discarded denim that he’d found somewhere. They looked quite out of place on him. “And who are you, goblin? Why should I talk to you?”

“Because we are cousins,” Rasmus answered. It had the sound of something ritual, and Knox listened with interest. When he’d taken a hob to meet the last brownie, they’d spoken the fae tongue and he hadn’t understood a word. “And we serve the same court. Your burrow is your domain, and your words come first, but you will do me the courtesy of listening and we will part as friends and brothers.”

The brownie made a face, but nodded, gesturing for them both to sit down. Knox perched on one of the little chairs, noting with admiration that they were constructed of woven grass and matchsticks. Clever little fellow, this brownie. Much more civilized than the last one with which he’d dealt. 

“This is my burrow and domain,” the brownie said crossly, “and so I will speak first. I know what you’ve come here after, and you cannot have it. I found it on my property, buried more than three feet below the top line of the soil. That makes it mine by rights.”

“Whose rule is that?” Knox demanded, outraged.

“It’s the rule of the Seelie Court,” the brownie sniffed.

“Well, I’m not a fae!” Knox shouted. Rasmus laid a hand on his arm, trying to calm him down, but Knox was fairly vibrating with anger. 

“Right, so I shouldn’t even have to deal with you!” the brownie yelled back. “Anyway, I’ve already put it in place, and it’s not going anywhere!”

“I had to go all the way to California to get that!” Knox could feel hair bristling out of his face and he took a deep breath, controlled himself. He could not lose control of his skins in front of a brownie. Besides, what if he didn’t stay small when he shifted?

“Then I’ll have a fancy imported bathtub!” the brownie crowed.

“You can’t make a tub out of a skull!”

“Ew, it’s a skull?” Rasmus interjected, looking vaguely queasy. “Why’d you steal a skull from California?” 

“It’s a long story,” Knox muttered.

“It’s a nice skull,” the brownie said smugly. “I’ve stoppered up his eyes and he makes a right nice bathtub. The missus will be pleased.”

“You’ve got a missus?” Rasmus asked, suddenly interested. The brownie preened.

“Not yet, but she’ll be mine when she sees how I’ve fixed the place up!”

“What if we traded you?” 

Knox made an indignant noise and Rasmus kicked him under the table. The thought of dealing with this little thief was a bit beyond the pale, but the brownie seemed interested, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. 

“Mayhap that might work,” he said slowly, tapping his mouth with one finger. “I was in the park the other day gathering the good grasses that grow there and I saw a beautiful golden basin.” Knox frowned. There were no gold basins in the park, beautiful or otherwise. He should know, he lived there.

“We could get you that!” Rasmus offered.

“Aye,” the brownie nodded, “you could, and that would be a good sight better than a skull. Ladies don’t always like those.”

“Where did you see it?” Knox demanded, suspicious.

“A little fellow was washing it out in the creek,” the brownie answered serenely. “I imagine it belongs to him. He was just a wee one, though, just a kid, with white skin and white hair and bright pink eyes.”

“Oh.” Knox’s stomach sank like a rock. “I know who you’re talking about. It wasn’t his basin, but I know who it probably belongs to.”

“Well, go on then,” the brownie ordered, waving them away. “You bring me back that basin, and I’ll give you your skull. Fair’s fair.”

*

They sat outside of the burrow and Knox cradled his head in his hands and wondered what he had done to deserve this sort of shabby treatment. Rasmus sat next to him, tying his shoelaces and humming tunelessly. Either he didn’t care about Knox’s existential crisis, or he was doing a very convincing job of pretending; whatever the case, Knox found his cheerfulness intensely irritating.

“What are you so happy about?” he demanded.

“Well, the job’s easy now, isn’t it?” Rasmus answered. “We just have to go get the basin and trade it. I really thought he was going to make us do something outrageous.” He grinned, remembering. “This one time, I had to trade a brownie for this super rare flower that I needed to cure a curse my sister was under, and he made me bring him a vial of water from the lake on the far side of the moon.” Rasmus shook his head, dusted himself off as he stood up. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get an eagle to carry you to the moon?”

“I’d rather that’s what he wanted,” Knox snapped, setting off across the field, Rasmus close behind. “I know loads of eagles and half of them owe me a favor. We’d be done before dinner.”

“Surely we can just buy the basin off of that kid,” Rasmus protested. He seemed to have inserted himself in the quest, for which Knox was obscurely pleased. He’d half expected it; the fae loved nothing more than a good quest. Still, it was gratifying to have a partner.

“I told you, it’s not his basin,” Knox sighed. “He was just rinsing it out for his mistress.”

“Oh.” Rasmus was silent for a moment. “So she’s not that friendly?”

“She’s a witch.”

“That’s not so bad!” Rasmus bumped shoulders with him in an attempt to be encouraging. Knox growled. “Come on, they don’t allow the evil child-eating witches in the city!”

“That’s what _you_ think,” Knox muttered. “Anyway, it’s not that she eats kids or anything. It’s that she’s… tricky. And she’s not gonna take money for the basin.”

*

The house that Knox led them to was not particularly witchy from the outside. It was a nice little stone cottage with a well tended English style garden in lieu of a front lawn, and a bright yellow wooden door. Smoke puffed merrily from the chimney, giving the crisp air a sharp scent that Knox usually relished. Knowing who lived there, though, and more importantly, _not_ knowing what she was brewing over that fire, sort of soured the experience.

Knox rapped on the door and stood fidgeting while Rasmus stared at the garden in awe. “She’s got some really rare plants here,” he observed. “She must do a good trade on the alchemical market.”

“I do all right,” the witch answered, smiling as she leaned in the doorway. Knox nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn’t heard or smelled her approach which, he supposed, was part of the trick. “How can I help you boys?”

“Grimm,” Knox greeted, bobbing his head a little. She made him nervous, with her bone white skin and her hair to match and the milky blindness of both her eyes. A small albino rat perched on her shoulder, twitching its nose at Knox. He acknowledged the rat as well, nodding cautiously. “Skinny.” 

“We’ve come to ask you about a golden basin you have,” Knox continued. Grimm smiled slowly. Her lips were painted a deep, rich violet; the lurid color made her mouth seem too wide.

“I use a golden basin in some of my work,” she admitted. “What of it?”

“I have a client who would very much like to purchase it from you,” Knox said, half-heartedly. Before he’d even gotten the sentence out, Grimm was shaking her head. Knox sighed.

“No, no, no,” she scolded. “That will never do. I couldn’t part with such an important object for mere money.”

“We could trade you,” Rasmus offered. “Is there anything that you need?”

“There are lots of things that I need,” Grimm purred. Knox watched in disgust as Rasmus’s golden cheeks darkened to bronze and a goofy smile spread across his handsome face. Humanoids and their hormones, honestly.

“I know you’ve got an errand you need run,” he interrupted. “I know how this sort of thing works with you witches. Just tell it to me so I can go do it.” Grimm pursed her lips, then shrugged. Rasmus deflated. 

“Well, I was going to send Skinny to do it, but it might be better if you did,” she said thoughtfully. “Coming from a second party might ease the transaction.” She nodded her head briskly, having apparently made up her mind. “All right, there _is_ something that I need. I’ve a very important spell to work and I need three scales from the tail of a mermaid.” Knox groaned.

“Don’t be like that,” Grimm scolded. “I know where you can get them, all you have to do is find out what she wants for them.” She produced a slip of paper from her pocket and held it out. Knox took it, read the address. “You pay her, bring me the scales, and I’ll reimburse your money and throw in the basin. Deal?”

“Deal,” Knox muttered, stepping down off the porch and dragging Rasmus with him. “We’ll be right back…”

*

They made their way downtown, taking the bus part of the way because Rasmus started to complain about his sore feet.

“You dance on a pole all night,” Knox protested. “How are your feet tired from just walking?”

“I’m used to wearing heels,” Rasmus answered loftily. Knox had stopped asking him questions after that and had instead resorted to gently banging his head against the window of the bus until they’d reached their destination.

The address Grimm had given them turned out to be that of a little bistro on the corner. There were several people sitting outside, basking in the lovely weather. Knox stood awkwardly on the sidewalk and exchanged a glance with Rasmus. How the hell were they supposed to know which one of these people was selling mermaid scales?

“What about her?” Rasmus asked, pointing to a slim, pretty girl sitting by herself. “She looks like a mermaid.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Knox snapped. “Let’s go talk to her…”

They made their way to her table, trying very hard to look as though they were meant to be there. Knox had been thrown out of more than a few Porter City restaurants, and he eyed the waiters suspiciously as they passed by him carrying food.

The girl looked up at them in mild surprise as they sat down at her table. She was even prettier up close, with olive skin and tilted eyes and dark brown hair kissed auburn by the sun. Knox flashed a quick smile, waved at Rasmus to speak. The goblin stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and beamed at the girl.

“Hi, we’re looking for someone selling mermaid scales and we were wondering if you could help us,” he said. Knox’s forehead met the tabletop with a loud thunk. The girl stared at them both in amazement, her mouth open slightly, her lips curving up into a bemused smile. “Would you happen to know anyone that has some? We were given this address by our associate, but I suspect she may have been confused.” He flashed a winning smile. The girl shook her head and lifted her hands.

Her fingers began to move rapidly and it took Knox a moment to realize that she was signing to them. He stared at her in a state of mild panic, then elbowed Rasmus hard. “Do you know ASL?” he hissed.

“What?” Rasmus frowned. “What’s that?”

“American Sign Language,” Knox snapped.

“No! Why would I know that?” Rasmus was entirely flustered. “The only kind of sign language I know is goblin war signs!”

Knox cradled his head in his hands again, moaning softly to himself. Nothing was going to go right today and he was going to wind it up with being stomped on by a frost giant. Just excellent!

Cool fingers touched his wrist and he looked up into the girl’s smiling face. She handed him a notebook. Written neatly at the top of the page was a sentence:

_It’s okay, I can write._

Knox looked up at her, deeply embarrassed, and handed back the notebook. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m having a rough day.” The girl shrugged her shoulders and smiled. It was obviously something that happened to her pretty frequently. “So you can hear me?” She nodded cheerfully, then bent her head, writing a new line.

_I know where you can get the scales. I have them, actually, so that was a good guess._

Knox exhaled noisily, showed the notebook to Rasmus. The goblin beamed, elbowed him lightly. “See, I told you!” he crowed. “I said she looked like a mermaid!” She laughed, sketched a little bow. Knox wasn’t willing to commit that fully, but if she did turn out to be a mermaid turned human, it wouldn’t surprise him. Weirder things had happened. 

“How much do you want for the scales?” Knox asked, pushing the notebook back to her. The girl wrote for a minute, then passed it across the table to him. Knox’s good mood evaporated.

_I don’t really need money, but there’s a woman in town who has a set of golden strings that will fit on any instrument. They are said to give the purest tone of any string in the world. I would very much like those._

“Not money?” Knox asked plaintively. “Please?” The girl shook her head firmly and Knox sighed. “All right, who has them?”

Rasmus put his hand down on the notebook before she could take it again. He looked queasy, drained of color, and there was a resigned expression on his face. “Nah, she doesn’t have to. I know who’s got them…”

*

“So, you want the golden strings from my harp.”

Knox, who had been staring resolutely at the wall, snapped his attention back to the present and sat forward on his chair.

They had traveled across town, Rasmus reluctant to talk, but finally admitting that it was none other than his cousin, the daughter of the Erlkonig, who possessed the golden strings that Talulah - that was the mermaid girl’s name, Talulah - desired.

“It can’t be that bad,” Knox soothed, patting the goblin on the arm. “She can’t be that bad.”

“Oh yes she can,” Rasmus answered, glum and downtrodden. “You just wait.”

She had invited them into her parlor with a bright smile, fetched them wine that tasted like summer. Everything in her home was elegant and smooth and dark, much as she was with her curvy figure and her ebony hair. Knox had fallen half in love with her the moment he saw her pale, heart-shaped face, and so he’d let Rasmus do all the talking. He was eternally wary of the glamors of the fae; they had their little tricks to loosen the tongue and guide the mind. Rasmus, sulky and uncommunicative, seemed immune to his cousin’s charms, and they had chatted for a while about this and that, family members who had come to the New World, and those who had stayed behind in Europe.

But now the conversation turned and Knox perked his ears. Annika seemed a reasonable woman (for a fae) and he held out hope that she would trade him goods for money like an ordinary person.

“Yes,” Rasmus answered. It was clear from his dour expression that he didn’t think Annika would do any such thing. “It’s kind of a long story, but we would appreciate it.”

“I have money,” Knox chimed in. Annika directed her sweet smile at him. For the first time since they’d arrived, he saw the viciousness in her eyes, the wicked lines of her mouth. She was, after all, a forest elf, and they were not known for their kindness.

“Silly fox,” she cooed. “I have plenty of money!”

“Just sell us the strings, Annika,” Rasmus groaned. “You don’t even play that stupid harp, you only took it so that Oona wouldn’t have it!” Annika’s eyes flashed dangerously, but her voice was still melodic and pleasant.

“I won’t sell you the strings,” she said firmly. “But I will trade for them.”

Knox felt like chewing his tongue right out of his mouth, but he managed to control himself and asked instead, “What do you want for them?”

“Well…” Annika paused to pour herself another glass of wine, tipped the bottle towards them. Knox started to nod, but Rasmus pinched him on the thigh and so he shook his head reluctantly. Annika smiled like a shark. 

“My ex-husband’s brother has a pair of dancing slippers that I have been dying to get my hands on for ages,” she explained. “They’re woven of silver, and enchanted to make you dance flawlessly.”

“Surely you don’t need those!” Knox protested, thinking to flatter her. Annika laughed and reached across the table, patting his cheek. She smelled of roses and lilies and, under that, the deep dark spaces of the woods where hungry things lurk.

“You’re sweet,” she purred. “It’s not a matter of needing them, little fox. They used to belong to me, that’s all.”

“Fine,” Rasmus said, standing up and dragging Knox with him. “We’ll get you the slippers.”

*

“Who’s her ex-husband?” Knox asked as they left.

“Jon French,” Rasmus muttered. Knox frowned.

“I know him,” he mused. “He’s a werewolf. What would his brother be doing with a woman’s dancing slippers?”

Rasmus snorted, tossed a companionable arm around Knox’s shoulders. “Oh Reynard,” he sighed. “You’ve clearly never met Augustin.”

*

Augustin Babineaux was like no werewolf that Knox had ever met before.

He had greeted them happily, kissing Rasmus on both cheeks and clasping Knox’s hands like they were old friends. His skin was dark and dusky, his hair thick and shiny and black, and he sported the most excellent moustache Knox had ever seen. The room into which he lead them was nice and simple, a cozy living room with a sofa and an armchair, a coffee table and a huge flat screen TV. Augustin, in his skirt and beads and scarves, clacking and jangling like a wind chime, did not suit it at all.

“My friends!” he exclaimed, crossing his legs and settling on the floor in front of the couch. “What can I do for you?”

Knox exchanged a glance with Rasmus, then both of them sat on the floor as well. Knox, who had never really been comfortable with furniture anyhow, appreciated the reprieve from endless chairs and couches.

“We’re trying to get something back,” Knox explained carefully. “It belongs to me but it was stolen, and… we need something that you have to trade for it.”

“Of course,” Augustin said. “What do you need?”

“You have a pair of silver slippers,” Knox answered. Augustin frowned.

“The dancing shoes?” he murmured. “But those do not belong to me.”

“Yes, they belong to my cousin,” Rasmus explained. “She would like them back.”

“Mmhmm.” Augustin tapped his lips with a long, thin finger. “I see. I would have given them back to her years ago, but I have been… gone for a while. And there is my brother, of course. They are not on friendly terms, and family being what it is, well.”

“So we can’t have them?” Knox slumped forward, resting his head on the carpet. All of that running around for nothing!

“Perhaps you can,” Augustin mused. “But I would need something to give to Jon, something to mollify him.”

“Can’t you just… not tell him?” Knox pleaded. He could already see where this was going, and the weight in his belly was like lead. Augustin favored him with a sympathetic look.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. Knox sighed heavily.

“All right,” he muttered. “What do you want for the shoes?”

Augustin clucked his tongue disapprovingly and frowned, and Rasmus jumped into the conversation. The words he spoke made no sense to Knox, but Augustin’s face lit up with surprise and pleasure. He answered in kind, and the two of them began to chatter away in a vaguely Eastern European sounding language. Knox shifted impatiently, and was beginning to wonder if Rasmus intended to sit around and shoot the shit all night when the two of them rose and clasped hands.

Knox scrambled to his feet and followed Rasmus out the door. “What was that all about?” he demanded.

“You offended him,” Rasmus answered loftily. “I smoothed things over.”

“You’re a show off,” Knox accused. “What the hell language were you even speaking?”

“A Romani dialect,” Rasmus smirked.

“Is he a gypsy?” He twisted around to look at the house and Rasmus cuffed him on the ear. “Ow!”

“Romani,” the goblin corrected. “Don’t be rude. And yeah, he is. Or was, I guess. He’s been a werewolf for ages and they kind of sever all ties. You know.”

Knox did. He’d worked for the wolves a couple of times, enough to learn that when they joined the pack it didn’t matter who they were. They left their past and their people behind them, often changing their names to further muddy the waters. Augustin Babineaux was undoubtedly not the name to which he had been born. Knox wondered if he even remembered it. He wondered if the old wolf even wanted to remember it.

A lot could be attached to a name. Knox didn’t blame the wolves for leaving them behind like old clothes.

“What does he want, then?” he demanded, cupping a hand over his throbbing ear.

“A bottle of wine,” Rasmus said. “Come on, I know where we can get just the one.”

*

Andretti’s was a little dive bar on the same street as the club where Rasmus worked. It was early for it to be open, but he said that the owner was often there well before the patrons, and at least this time, he was proved correct.

Pearl Andretti was a short, round woman with bright eyes and pin-up girl hair and smooth dark brown skin. She was behind the bar when they entered, and she spared a faint smile for Rasmus as she polished the gleaming wooden surface. Her eyes narrowed when they landed on Knox, and she shook her head.

“Uh uh, Rasmus,” she said, levelling a finger at Knox. Her nails were painted bright pink. “No skinwalkers in the bar, I know I told you that before.”

“That’s not fair,” Knox protested.

“Yes it is,” Pearl answered. “Y’all can’t handle your alcohol and I’m all done cleaning up deer puke from the barstools.”

Knox considered, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay, fair enough. I’m not gonna drink, though.” For all they looked like humans, he and his kind were animals in other skins, and drinking was a bit beyond them. The wine he’d had at Annika’s house had almost been too much for him.

“Got a favor to ask you, Pearl,” Rasmus said, leaning on the bar and grinning. His eyes had taken on a lazy light. His lips seemed swollen. Pearl eyed him, smiling, then patted his cheek.

“I bet you do, sweetie,” she cooed. “But if you don’t get those pretty gold elbows of yours off my clean bar, I’m gonna snap your horns off and shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine.”

Rasmus stood up so fast that he almost fell over and Knox snorted. So much for the seductive approach. 

“We need a bottle of wine,” he declared. Pearl raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Thought you weren’t gonna drink,” she said.

“It’s not for me.” Knox hopped up on a barstool and spun it in a circle. Pearl’s disapproving face flashed by with every rotation. “It’s a present. For a friend.”

“What kind you want?”

“We were thinking some of that Atlantean wine you keep down in the basement,” Rasmus interrupted. Pearl laughed.

“Oh, I got some big spenders!” she crowed. “You know how expensive that shit is, Rasmus?”

“I don’t know-”

“Twenty grand.” Knox almost fell off of the stool. Rasmus looked like he’d been hit between the eyes.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I guess I could scrape that up, if I borrowed from a couple of people…” He seemed to have forgotten that this was all Knox’s problem, and Knox was content not to remind him. The fae often involved themselves fully in their tasks, and if Rasmus wanted to shell out that kind of money for a bottle of wine, he was welcome to it. Knox certainly didn’t have that kind of cash lying around.

“Oh no, babies,” Pearl interrupted, shaking her head grimly. “That’s twenty grand _a glass_. No way can you afford an entire bottle.”

Rasmus sat down heavily, looking dazed, and Pearl poured him a glass of something clear that smelled like paint thinner. He drank it all in one gulp and didn’t even flinch. Knox recoiled, wrinkling his nose.

“Don’t get drunk,” he growled. Rasmus glared at him.

“Why not?” he demanded. “That’s basically the end of the road.”

“Yeah,” Knox answered, resting his head on the bar with a thud. “But I’d rather you stay sober until Gunnar kills me. At least I should have some company.” Rasmus grimaced, reached over and squeezed Knox’s arm. The reality of his situation was beginning to settle in and, far from the panic he’d felt earlier in the day, he was now just draped in a resigned weariness.

“Dear Lord,” Pearl sighed, rolling her eyes. “All right, listen. Y’all are about to piss me off, so here’s what we’re gonna do. You go find me something I need, and I’ll give you a bottle of the wine.”

Knox wanted to cry, but if the alternative was getting squashed to a pulp by a frost giant, he would gladly accept yet another stupid quest. He nodded pathetically at Pearl and opened his eyes as wide as he could, hopeful that she would name some super easy thing. Like a leaf or something.

“I need some grave dirt,” she said. Knox perked up. It wasn’t a leaf, but grave dirt _was_ pretty easy to get a hold of. Porter City was still new and its graveyards were not full by any stretch of the imagination, but he could slip out of the city for a little bit, run to the nearest town. But Pearl wasn’t done talking. “From the grave of someone who didn’t stay in it.”

“So… what, like a vampire?” Rasmus asked, wrinkling his nose. Knox shuddered. Vampires weren’t interested in him; they were by and large above drinking the blood of animals. But they still gave him the creeps, with their weird waxy skin and their stupid fangs.

“Vampire would work,” Pearl nodded, pulling out a ledger and a pencil and very clearly dismissing them. “Go on, now.”

They shuffled out of the bar and stood together in the late afternoon sunlight. “You think any of the vampires are carting around their grave dirt?” Knox asked wistfully.

“Nah,” Rasmus answered. “That’s a myth, they don’t do that.”

Knox wondered where the nearest vampire grave was, and whether he had time to go find it. If there even _were_ any vampire graves around here. Most of them just chilled in their sire’s basement these days; gone were the midnight cemetery escapes that seemed so dramatic but which were, in fact, probably just confusing and unnecessary. Popular opinion seemed to be that it was much preferable for the young vampires to wake up in a house with someone nearby to guide them.

Which meant no graves.

Which meant no dirt.

“I guess we could fly to Europe,” Knox muttered. Rasmus snorted.

“Or find the nearest zombie apocalypse,” the goblin suggested.

“Holy. Shit.” Knox stared up at Rasmus, transported by delight. “How did I not think of that? _Zombies_!”

*

Chad Steingarten was not really a zombie.

It was true that he was dead, and that he had risen from the grave in a shower of dirt to a chorus of wordless moaning. And it was true that his vital functions had all but ceased, and that he craved the taste of human flesh. But it was also true that he took showers and retained his personality and had made the conscious choice to be a vegetarian. Plus, he was dating the deputy mayor, so no one really wanted to say anything about the fact that every once in a while, an ear or a finger would just fall off.

Knox, who was something of an outcast himself, thoroughly enjoyed Chad’s company on the occasions when Chad would venture outside. Most of the other skinwalkers stayed away from him; he smelled rather like death and that made them nervous. But he was funny, and a nice dude, and he greeted them happily when they knocked on his door.

“Hey, little fox!” he exclaimed, waving them in. They followed him into the living room as he vaulted the back of the couch and picked up his Xbox controller. “What’s up? I never see you on this side of town.”

“You remember that time you showed me some of the dirt from your grave?” Knox asked, not even trying to sound casual. Beside him, Rasmus’s lips moved as he counted the stitches behind Chad’s ear. He looked a bit like Frankenstein’s creature, except all of the parts were his own. They just came loose from time to time.

“Sure,” Chad answered absently, ducking his character behind a wall to snipe at a horde of aliens. 

“Can I have some of it? Just a little bit...” Knox crossed his fingers, a human (and therefore stupid) gesture that made him feel just a tiny bit more lucky.

“Totally,” Chad said. “It’s in that jar over on the shelf.” 

Knox stood for a moment, frozen by surprise. No catch? No favor? No ridiculous thing that he wanted in return? He took a hesitant step, then another, then he was across the room holding the Mason jar in his hands and gesturing frantically to Rasmus to find something to put the dirt in.

“Hey, though,” Chad interrupted, “can you guys do me a favor first?”

Knox erupted. He couldn’t help himself, it was just too absurd at this point and he didn’t know what else to do. “NO!!” he yelled. “We can’t! We’re doing fucking favors for everyone else in the city and we just want a little pinch of dirt, I’m not going to run across town and get you some magical hair dye or whatever. I’m done! I quit! The frost giants can just fucking eat me for dinner!”

Chad stared at him like he’d completely lost it. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I just needed some shit from the grocery store and I don’t wanna go cause I’m on a roll with this game. But dude, it’s cool. Just take the dirt.”

They stared at each other over the back of the couch. Chad had one blue eye and one black eye. Knox didn’t know if he’d been born like that, or if he’d had to replace an eye at some point. The Mason jar was heavy in his hands.

“Sorry,” he muttered, ducking his head. “We’ll go to the store for you. It’s just… been a long day.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Chad remarked. “I mean, I wouldn’t even ask, but Pat’ll be pissed at me if he comes home and there’s nothing for supper.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Knox said, setting the jar down on an end table. Chad handed over a shopping list and some cash. As they left, he called out.

“Hey, I’ll go ahead and pack up that dirt for you! Thanks guys!”

*

And so they traded groceries for dirt, and dirt for wine, and wine for slippers, and slippers for strings, and strings for scales, and then all that was left was the basin...

*

By the time they reached Grimm’s house, the sun was going down and Knox was feeling particularly bedraggled and irritable. He hammered on the door and, when a scrawny kid with pink eyes answered, he thrust the Ziploc baggie out like it was a weapon. Skinny, a fellow skinwalker and Grimm’s sort of familiar, took the baggie and examined its contents, five iridescent scales that glittered like gems in the fading sunlight.

“Gimme the basin,” Knox barked. He was all done with pleasantries. Skinny glowered at him and fished behind the door.

The basin was truly lovely, seamless and smooth and richly, warmly gold. Knox cradled it against his body. It was much heavier than it looked. Skinny eyed him balefully for a moment, then slammed the door.

“Thanks!” Rasmus called, rolling his eyes.

“Come on,” Knox muttered. “Let’s get this to the damned brownie so I can get my skull back.”

*

It took all three of them to lug the basin into the brownie’s burrow. By the time they were done, Knox - who had mostly just pushed at it and let the two fae do all of the work - was sweating and dirty and even more pissed off than before. One final heave and it settled into a shallow divot in the dirt floor, filling the room with warm brilliance. The brownie stood back to admire it, hands on his hips, and Knox growled.

“Your skull is back where I found it,” the brownie said primly, not looking at him. “Go on now, both of ya.” His smile was brilliant, sharp little teeth flashing like needles in his brown face.

“I’m gonna take a bath!”

*

Gunnar Haakonsson turned the skull over in his great blue fingers, rumbling under his breath, and Knox watched him warily. He had no clue whether the frost giant could actually tell whether the skull was genuine or not. The frost giants were pretty secretive about what they could and could not do, and while some of the people in the city could read bones by touch or smell or taste, it didn’t seem likely that Gunnar was one of them.

If he decided to declare the skull fake, though, Knox had decided to just go for his eyes. If he shed his stupid human skin - which was beginning to itch - he could definitely get in there before one of the other giants crushed him with a mace.

“Well done, little fox,” Gunnar boomed, handing the skull off to one of his brothers. The giants - who were mostly in the eight foot tall range, and so seemed to take up entirely too much room - roared their approval. Knox hunched his head down, trying to cover his ears with his shoulders.

“The skull of my father’s enemy will make a fine drinking goblet,” he continued, fishing in his jacket and pulling out an envelope that looked comically tiny in his big fingers. White brows beetled over solid black eyes as he bent forward to hand over the money. A swinging braid from his beard nearly clocked Knox in the head.

“Glad to be of service,” Knox chirped, taking his payment and shoving it into the waistband of his pants. He and the other skinwalkers would feast tonight.

As he left the great banquet hall, he heard Gunnar shouting at the others to clean the skull.

“It stinks like a brownie!” he roared, and Knox giggled helplessly all the way out of the room.

*

“Thirty percent,” Knox declared, counting out the money into Rasmus’s hand.

The goblin, who had not been allowed inside Gunnar’s hall due to a very old, very serious feud between the giants and the goblins, stared in astonishment at the money. It was clear he hadn’t expected a cut; that hadn’t been part of the bargain and the fae were very big on sticking to the letter of their agreements.

And in truth, Knox hadn’t intended to give Rasmus any money. The goblin owed him a favor for past services rendered and that was that, they would have been happy to part ways with that settled and no more. But it had been a long, hard day and Rasmus had been…

Well, he had been helpful, above and beyond what Knox had expected. He’d really only needed the goblin to intercede with the brownie, but Rasmus had walked the whole stupid quest with him, and that deserved a little more than just a pat on the back.

“I can’t take this,” Rasmus protested.

“Shut up,” Knox beamed. “I’ve got more than enough left, and you can buy some new stripper shoes or something.”

Rasmus tucked the money in his pocket slowly, a faint grin flashing across his handsome face. “Thanks,” he said, attractively awkward. “You’re pretty good at math for a fox.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone,” Knox muttered. “People might start asking me to do their taxes or something.”

They stood for a moment, shuffling their feet at the edge of the park.

“So,” Rasmus said finally. “Whose skull _was_ that, anyway?”

“Jimmy Stewart’s,” Knox answered with a shrug. He started to disrobe, setting the envelope of cash on the grass. He was sick of walking around on two legs. “Apparently he insulted Gunnar’s father or something. I don’t know.”

“This is the weirdest city,” Rasmus mused, unfazed as Knox folded his clothes and tucked them under the roots of a nearby tree. “Guess you’re going home?”

“Yep. Gonna get some of the other ‘walkers together and go buy a bunch of food and throw a party,” Knox confirmed. He hesitated, screwed up his face, thought real hard. “You can come, if you want.”

“I have to work tonight,” Rasmus answered, “otherwise I would.” He sounded sincere and Knox felt deeply awkward. He stared resolutely at the ground and spoke in a rush.

“Well, the parties go basically all night, none of us have jobs so we probably won’t stop until the sun comes up, and sometimes not even then, so if you get off work and you’re not super tired, you should totally come out and see, we’re pretty awesome at parties, okay, better get going before the stores close, bye, thanks for helping!”

He shed his human skin, wriggling back into his fur, tucking the people face away down deep inside him. Everything was much better as a fox. Less confusing interactions, more delicious smells. He darted forward and grabbed the envelope of cash, which still smelled like frost giants, which made him sneeze.

Goblin fingers dug into the ruff of fur around his neck, scratched their way up behind his ears, and he dug his claws into the ground and closed his eyes in pleasure. Fingers! They were so great. Worth keeping people around. 

“I’m off at two,” Rasmus said, grinning down at him. “So I’ll see you at two thirty.”

Knox gave a muffled bark and then turned and streaked off into the gathering shadows of the park.


End file.
